Page 154 of Shrapnel

The door locked behind him, his cool measured steps echoing down the hallway. Jamie heard them long after they disappeared.

28

I’ve Been Hearing Silence on the Other Side for Way Too Long

Forget demon,Dominic was a ghost.

According to every record known to the internet, he didn’t exist. No government issued IDs, no property records, fingerprints, arrests, or anything. Facial recognition software picked him up on several different CCTV cameras in the last month, but nothing that would triangulate his location.

Owen used every favor he had ever accrued to get information. Nothing had panned out.

Grant sat back in his chair, groaning as his back popped. “How do you sit like this for so long?”

“Darwinism,” Owen answered without looking up from the computer. “My body has adapted after years of abuse.”

He didn’t laugh, choosing to rub his eyes instead. Grant had slept less than Owen. When Owen had finally dropped off to sleep at his keyboard Grant was still going. His phone rang at all hours and if it wasn’t ringing it was going off with texts. He was sending Weavers out to every corner of the state looking for Jamie. He was pulling strings Owen didn’t even know existed. Not that they seemed to help.

Jackson was snoring in the corner. Dropped down onto an old couch, he didn’t seem to be feeling the stress the same way they did. After finishing with Mateo, he delivered him to White Sand Mesa. Upon his return he insisted he was no good with this kind of stuff, and to wake him when they had an actual target to unleash him on.

Owen resisted the urge to throw wadded up notebook paper at him. Jackson wasn’t as scary when he was snuffling in his sleep, leg shaking like a dog. He wondered what it was the big merc dreamt of? Probably ripping molars out of drug dealers.

A knock drew their attention and Grant stood, walking across the darkened computer room to open the door. Kurt was standing there holding a bag. His wet hair was pulled back and he had a backpack slung over a shoulder and a paper sack in his hand.

“Selcouth,” Grant’s smile was genuine, his exhaustion seeming to evaporate. “I thought you were at the hospital.”

“Came back for a shower. Noah’s bored so grabbed him some stuff.” he hooked a thumb towards the backpack. “How are things?”

Grant stepped into the hallway but didn’t fully close the door behind him. Owen tried not to eavesdrop, but there was nothing to look at while his computer shifted through thousands of images. He tapped his cast against the desk, trying to keep his attention off the conversation.

“We’ve exhausted all the leads we can come up with. I’ve got lines of inquiry out but nothing so far.”

Kurt nodded. “You’ll find him.” He smoothed out some of the wrinkles in Grant’s shirt with his free hand, fingers lingering on his sternum. “You always do.”

It was hard to see Grant through the narrow opening. Light from the hallway seemed to war against the shadows from the office. Grant’s face was contoured with the war, battle lines shifting every time he moved his head. He looked uncertain. A look Owen didn’t find comforting.

“Here,” Kurt shoved the bag into his chest, clearing his throat. “Make sure you eat.”

Grant smiled, kissing Kurt’s temple. “Give Noah my love.”

“Sure,” he groused, moving off down the hall.

The bag smelled like greasy spiced meat. Grant dropped it on the desk and gestured for Owen to help himself. He withdrew one of the foil wrapped tacos. Still warm, they smelled heavenly. He bit into the tortilla, eyes rolling as the melted cheese and lettuce offset the peppery meat.

“They’re from a taco truck we like,” Grant answered Owen’s unasked question.

“Is it in heaven?”

“Not quite,” Grant said as he withdrew his own. “But the memories are quite pleasant.”

Lost in thought, Grant chewed in silence. Owen watched him out of the corner of his eye. It was easy to say that Grant was the most badass person he knew, but the truly boggling thing about him was how he seemingly managed to tame Kurt. The surly ex-bartender was easily the most cantankerous person Owen had ever met. His words dripped poison and Owen had heard of the violence he inflicted upon uppity patrons. Hell, just hearing him talk to Noah would make most people flinch.

Owen didn’t begrudge Kurt. They all knew what he had suffered at the Catacombs. And there were rumors that the battle there was just the tip, that the things he suffered were so much worse.

But here he was, loving Grant, and being the picture of domestic bliss—forehead kisses and soft touches.

It reminded him a lot of what Jamie had said. Owen was so focused on getting him home, he hadn’t stopped to think about what it would be like when they did. What was he suffering right now? Was he going to relapse back to the way he was when he first came to the Weavers? Nightmares and silence? Teeth clenched so tightly they cracked?

Would he sleep?